No. [this time he presses with the heel of his hand, widening the distance between them. He almost stumbles when he turns away, walking back to his bed. His words are slurred again because his mouth is tense, brows furrowed like a sullen child.] Don't need your - fucking pity. Makes me sick.
[he crawls onto his bed. Doesn't bother with the covers or with his clothes.]
no subject
[he crawls onto his bed. Doesn't bother with the covers or with his clothes.]
Go.